


Memories II

by ghosteye99



Category: Harry Potter - Fandom
Genre: Gen, Sorting, boy!snape, flashback!fic, slightly jossed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-06
Updated: 2013-01-06
Packaged: 2017-11-23 21:27:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/626702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghosteye99/pseuds/ghosteye99
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post HBP, a man in hiding has some time to reflect on the day it all began. Written before the release of Deathly hallows, so it is slightly jossed now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Memories II

**Author's Note:**

> I've been wanting to do a piece on Snape's first day at school memories (and to write a Gen Boy!Snape fic as well). It's strictly from his POV - both as an adult and as the child he remembered himself to be. First posted to a thread on the Mugglenet forums.
> 
> Disclaimer: J.K Rowling is the creator and true owner of the characters of Hogwarts and the wizarding world, and no infringement of copyright is intended. I'm just messing around with them for my own amusement.

He remembered how hard it had rained on that first day, when the train had finally stopped, and he had to get off and wait in the downpour until the rest of the first-years had assembled. He remembered too how drenched he had become by the time the boats finally arrived to ferry them across the lake. How he had shivered under his cloak in the dark, while watching the carriages take the older students away in comfort.

He recalled the first time he set foot on the steps of the castle, and the way his long wet hair stuck to his face as they were formally greeted by a stern, respectable-looking woman (who was later to become his colleague). He remembered how amazed he had been when she dried them with a spell, and how overwhelmed he had felt when walking through the great hall for the very first time. He remembered the eyes of all the other students upon him and the others, and how uncomfortable he had felt from that.

He remembered, with a still-lingering shame, how he had to fight off the stupid urge to cry at that moment – and that he had only succeeded after the first two tears had formed. He remembered how he had twice lost control of himself on the train, and how during the second time a tall, well-dressed boy with long black hair had snapped at him for being a crybaby. He still sometimes shuddered at this memory – not for recieving the remonstrance, but for failing to contain his own weakness that day.

He remembered waiting for his turn to be sorted. He had heard, from somewhere behind him, the voice of the boy who had scolded him on the train. The way he was talking, he had sounded like he'd found a friend already. He had wondered at the time if he too would find anyone to share company with sometimes. He recalled how the boy was one of the first ones called to the sorting stool - because his surname was Black – and how, after a few seconds, the hat had shouted out "Griffindor!" to the cheering crowd.

He knew then that he himself would be waiting longer, since his own name was much further down in the alphabet. He remembered wondering if, by the time his turn came, whether the crowd would become too tired or bored to cheer. He had hoped the hat wouldn't take too long to sort him, like it seemed to do so with some of them. He remembered how the two tears that he had been unable to stop still hung annoyingly at the corners of his eyes, threatening to fall at any moment. He remembered hoping desperately that they wouldn't.

He remembered the moment his name had been called, and the almost paralysing knot of fear in his stomach when he realised that this meant that he had to step out alone to the stool Now, with everybody watching. He recalled that he had hesitated for a split second, and a boy behind muttering at him to hurry up. He remembered forcing himself forward before Professor McGonagall could call his name again. He remembered the feel of the hat as it touched his head. He remembered thinking at that moment that it was too late to try and surreptitiously dry those tears.

There were voices in the hat. Voices that whispered questions to him. And whispered things about him to itself. He recalled how the voices went through names of all the houses – Hufflepuff, Griffindor, Slytherin, Ravenclaw – and how afraid he became when he wondered whether the hat would unable to sort him. He wondered what would happen to him if he couldn't be put into any of the houses. He remembered how the dreaded urge to cry had started to come back …

It was the softest of the whispering voices that finally saved him. He remembered well what it had told him: " _Though you are not a pureblood,_ " it had said, " _I can still see that you have the desire to become a great wizard_ ". 

He remembered whispering, "yes" to the voice. 

" _Is that what you wish for the most?_ " it had asked him next. 

"Yes", he had said again, and he had meant it. 

" _Then it is decided,_ " said the voice, and he had heard the hat triumphantly shout: 

"Slytherin!"

And so then, a Slytherin he had become. He remembered a fat, balding wizard beaming at him from the staff table as he was shown to his place. He remembered the boy who had muttered behind him hiss "finally, you slowpoke!" as he went past. He never did find out who he was – he remembered being too preoccupied with making a good impression on his new housemates. Especially when he recognised an older boy at the top of his house table, sitting next to a girl as blonde as he was. He remembered that he was Mr. Malfoy's son, Lucius.

It was his father, after all, that had helped to fund his own place in the school. If it hadn't been for that, he remembered, he probably would have had to stay on in that Muggle School. He would have been forced to learn his magic only whenever his father wasn't home, and when his mother wasn't either too busy or depressed to bother teaching him. He had forgotten that Mr. Malfoy's son was in Slytherin too.

And even when a mean-looking girl at his table – Bellatrix – snidely commented that she hadn't even heard of the Snape name before, Lucius himself had been quick to cut in and tell her that Severus was as pure-blooded as the rest of them. He remembered how much safer he had suddenly felt after that, how good he felt when Lucius stuck up for him. Lucius, who obviously had some pull and power among the others of his house. His mother had warned him that his being a half-blood could bring him problems, but with someone like Malfoy behind him, he knew now that things would be all right.

The man rested his chin against his hand as he remembered the unadulterated pleasure of the rest of that evening. He remembered feasting and joking with the other Slytherins, and glancing briefly at the Griffindor table to see the boy called Sirius Black chatting with another dark-haired boy. Little did he know back then what cruel enemies they were to later become for him. He had looked up at the staff table to see the jolly-looking fat man – Slughorn – still beaming in his direction. Lucius had told him that he was the head of their house. The headmaster, with his long beard and colourful robes overseeing everything ...

As he quietly shut his mind to the dangerous feelings which threatened to rise from that memory (the Dark Lord could call on him at any time, he knew that), he remembered that he had been so distracted by happiness back then, that he had completely forgotten about wiping his eyes. When Bellatrix (rudely) pointed out to him that he had tears on his cheeks, Severus could (just as rudely) excuse himself by saying he had been laughing at a particularly good joke of Lucius's. If his memory served him right, it was the one about what you got when you put ten mudbloods in a barrel, and then kicked it down a hill. Nowadays, he no longer found it funny. But he remembered how it had cracked him up listening to Lucius tell it, with his girlfriend Narcissa giggling …

And so it was … it would have been nearly thirty years ago by now, he reckoned. A boy of eleven, seated among friends, scooping whipped cream onto his chocolate custard even though he was already too full. He remembered looking up to watch the rain swirling across the ceiling of the hall, while he and the others sat warm and safe in the candlelight below. He remembered tasting pumpkin juice for the very first time, while dreaming already of the magic he would learn to do, and the great wizard he would one day become …

**-End-**


End file.
